Ave Maria of Trithemius
by 0SM0
Summary: A collection of drabbles for a dear friend. xx ((I own none of these drabbles they are for a birthday scavenger hunt for my friend and this work will be deleted in less than 48 hours after her birthday))


En Una Infinidad

The M in Question...

"Do you think you'll ever like it?" John asked cautiously a few days after the big reunion. He had felt terribly aware of his moustache the resided on his upper lip ever since Sherlock had returned. Often he saw him steal sideways glances at him while they were easing themselves into their old routine.

"Like what?" Sherlock asked acting oblivious.

"You know what; my moustache." John scoffed, pointing to the damn thing.

Sherlock pressed his lips into a fine line, looking like what others mistake for a grimace, but what John knew as an airlock to keep the grin inside.

"Alright, I know it's a bit…old fashioned, but I like it" he excused himself for some reason. As if he needed a reason to grow out his facial hair.

"I like it too" the airlock said quietly.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I said, I like it too" sherlock said a little more loudly and let the grin escape through the airlock. "In fact-" he continued, leaning out of his chair and on his knees in from of John-" I /love/ it."

"Oh, right…really?" John stuttered; flustered at the sudden closeness and the bony fingers that traced his kneecaps and were moving dangerously close to his thighs.

"Yes, I really do. In all honesty, it's been driving me mad…" He teased moving his hands closer to Johns groin area. Tingles shot down Johns legs and a bulge in his jeans betrayed his true feelings.

"Pupils dilated, sweaty forehead, pulse quickening and the most obvious…" Sherlock trailed off with a devilish grin. He moved his hands to John's zipper.

"St-stop it sherlock-" he told him; his breath staggered.

"Why..?"

"Mary- I can't- I just-" once again he staggered, but this time it was from choking back tears.

"She won't know, don't worry about her." The soft purr of Sherlock's voice combined with the faint touch of his hands left John him conflicted. In fact the reassurance nearly sunk in.

"No. I can't, I can't lie to her and I can't do this." He shouted.

Sherlock recoiled as if he'd hit him. He jumped back into the chair behind him and returned back to his usual pose with his slender fingers resting underneath his chin.

"Do you not trust me? I can keep a secret" he asked sounding offended.

"Of course I trust you, I always will. It's me I don't trust, I can't lie to her like that and I can't keep a secret like that. It's just too cruel" John said shaking his head.

"Well then, just break it off; I'm back now"

Gob-smacked, John re adjusted himself as he was deciding whether sherlock was being serious. Of course he was.

"You can't just ask me to do that sherlock! You can't just come back here, from the dead, three years later and ask me to remove the one person who made me feel happy when you were gone! How dare you! I love Mary and I'm not breaking up with her because you come back and say so!" He roared, but sherlock did not react. His face was plain and calm.

Then he suddenly stood up and walked to the door, pausing at the handle and adding /yes, the moustache is good and I like it, it's another 'm' that I don't/ before storming out.

It was strange to John, like he was writing with his other hand. Watching sherlock walk out instead of himself. The only problem was that he always came back, but he didn't know if sherlock would.

En Su Felicidad

Doctor Holmes...

John wasn't quite sure what to do. Sherlock was literally shaking with rage. Obviously he was trying to compose himself; but it wasn't working. He sat hunched over on the sofa, elbows on the close by table and fingers tangled in his messy black locks. Visible trembles of anger were running down his arched back and his curls were vibrating slightly.

"Sherlock," John began, placing one flat hand on his back. "It's ok, I'm ok. They're gone now and I'm fine."

"BUT YOU-" sherlock stopped short, feeling John's hand recoil. "But you are not fine. You're hurt" he rephrased in a more quiet tone. He glanced over his shoulder as he spoke, torturing himself at the sight of Johns swelling black eye, that wouldn't of been there if he was.

"A few bruises sherlock! I've had worse!" John retorted jokingly. But the dark fact that he truly had experienced worse was implied knowingly.

"It could of been worse John. They were professional assassins, who knows what they could of done to you? I can't let that happen! I can't lose you!" Cried sherlock like a small child. He quickly faced John with a desperate look on his face. Understandingly John wrapped an arm round his shoulder and pulled him closer until his bony cheekbones were resting against his fluffy white jumper. He cooed and comforted like a mother would do, kissing the top of his head and whispering 'I know, it's ok' at appropriate intervals.

When he had stopped shaking with that deadly anger of his, John pointed out that it should technically be sherlock comforting him, as he was the one that was beat and tied up; not the other way round.

No movement or indication that sherlock had actually heard him came from the bundle curled at John's chest. Then quickly in a flash, a few seconds later, he returned to his usual beanpole height and disappeared into the kitchen. When he returned he was carrying a green first aid kit that they kept under the sink.

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to remove your shirt so I can asses your wounds" sherlock commanded with a smirk.

"But I-"

"Sir, I must insist. I am your doctor after all." The smirk said, slipping on a stethoscope that god only knows where it came from.

John had no choice but to oblige. Half smiling with amusement he removed his shirt and threw it to the floor.

He began very professionally. Checking his heart beats with the stereoscope, asking him where it hurt and examining his wounds intensively. /Doctor/ John Watson was impressed with his beside manner and was observing him with adoration. The way his eyebrows would pull together, or one would raise questioningly would make him smile nonstop. Or the way his gentle fingers would drag across his skin, outlining his purple bruises would make him bite his lip to stop him laughing (he always was awfully ticklish).

"Now I have the medication to make it better, but it's not something most doctors would do" sherlock announced. "I'm going to have to kiss it better."

There was no hint of joke in his tone, but behind his eyes John could see a mischievous smirk desperate to come out, but scared it would give something away.

Once again, John obliged, nodding his head while the words /what an earth is he up to?/ ran through it.

Slowly and softly sherlock began high up at his neck, despite the fact there was no wounds there. He worked his way down, artfully becoming faster and stronger as he went. Until he could go no further because pale skin had stopped and dark denim had begun, inconveniently interrupting him.

Or so John thought.

With his pale bony fingers, sherlock undid the sliver buttons with quick, swift movements, and then yanked down his red boxers.

Further and further down he sank, no longer kissing, but something else entirely.

Stretching his hands out and pointing his toes, John had to bite his lip to stop himself crying out. His head rolled back to stare at the ceiling but he couldn't focus. The sensations running through his body were clouding his thoughts and controlling his mouth and body. Sherlock moved expertly around, knowing the exact buttons to push with John. /There was just no way he had had no previous experience before him/ was the only thought that was processed in John's cloudy head. He moaned appreciatively whilst running his hands on the walls behind him, groping for something to grab onto. His chest rose and fell at great speed as he tried his best to gain control over his body and the volume of his moaning.

He made one extra big and loud moan as his hit his climax and then relaxed, slumping into the sofa, letting the last sensations of the blo-job run through him whilst he panted.

Sherlock gulped and he rose up to meet johns eyes. The mischievous smirk John had seen earlier was now painted across his face; unafraid.

"That- that was just, just what the doctor ordered" panted John. "But /doctor/ Holmes, I do believe you might still be in shock, hand me the stethoscope, and I'll examine you…"

Irrevocablemente

Teenlock - fun at the school dance

"Has he ever been this drunk before?" John wearily asked Molly as Sherlock jumped into the centre of the dance floor, making some sort of movement that meant to represent dance.

"I've seen him worse than this, but he wasn't drunk" she huffed and walked away in disgust, muttering something about the fact she never asks her to dance. Around him, people were beginning to gather with camera phones and camcorders, laughing as Sherlock fell over into a heap on the floor. They were laughing at him – not with him and John didn't like that.

"Ok, that's enough. Sherlock get up" John intervened like a fed up parent.

"Is that jam…nope it's blood. Look john! I'm bleeding!" Sherlock announced proudly.

"Definitely enough – come with me."

Luckily, all Sherlock needed was a wipe and a wash of water to clean him up, but the shock of the fall seemed to have sobered him up a little bit.

"Someone must have spiked the punch" John muttered, throwing away the bloody tissue and leeting the water run from the bathroom sink.

"You're not drunk. How do you explain that?" Sherlock challenged. At John's confusion he produced his bothers hip flask and took a sip from it. "Want some? It's the only thing that's getting me though this god awful dance." Politely, John declined.

"Thought you wouldn't. You're too good for that." He said thoughtfully, then added, "thank you John – I realise how embarrassing I must have been. Sorry 'bout that."

Lightly he leaned forward and kissed his cheek. John then felt his tight curls scrape his face as his pale lips moved sneakily from his cheek to his lips. He hesitated, feeling Sherlock do so as well.

"You're drunk Sherl-" John began to protest, thinking practically; but soft pale lips interrupted him. They worked his mouth as smoothly and expertly as they would produce such intelligent words. Slowly, his tongue stretched out to search round John's mouth. However John was more hesitant, after all; the boys bathroom was a public place.

Feeling Sherlock's hands beginning to wander down to his arse, such thoughts were discarded and replaced with more inappropriate ones. He pushed closer into Sherlock's body and let his hands and tongue also wander around.

Somehow they began to whirlwind around the bathroom, pressing against cubicle doors, walls and sinks.

As it happened, someone did walk in, desperate to have a piss. However after hearing a series of sexual moans coming from the end cubicle – he walked out almost immediately.

"Wow that was classy. Hand jobs in the school toilet at a dance" John teased washing the cum off his hands at the sink.

"Class is way too overrated if it stops that happening" Sherlock grinned. "You want to get out of here?"

The events of the previous night lingered in John's mind as he woke up the next morning. Despite this, it still took him a few seconds to remember that he was in Sherlock's bed, stark naked.

Next to him, Sherlock was beginning to stir, groaning as his hangover adjusted to the light around him. Carefully he rolled over to face John. The pair looked away awkwardly, wondering what to say in this situation.

"hi" hi? Is that really your opening line? John thought angrily.

"hi" Sherlock replied with a nervous smile.

"do you remember what we did last night?" he tested, hoping desperately that he did because John was perfectly sober during all of it – thus remembering it perfectly.

"I may have been drunk, but who could forget the events of last night? I shall be telling my grandkids about it."

"I'd skim some details if I were you" John chuckled and Sherlock joined in. Then they were left in an awkward silence. Finally Sherlock asked what was playing on their minds.

"what now?"

"With us? I don't know. I suppose we have a decision. Do we want to continue doing this, or push it to the back of our minds like other one night stands?"

"You've had other one night stands?" Sherlock asked avoiding the question.

"Oh yeah – I'm not as good as you may think" he answered; also avoiding the question. He sighed, "how about we just see if it happens again and take it from there?"

"Is that an actual solution?" Sherlock scoffed.

"Have you got a better idea?"

"..No" Sherlock admitted.

"Ok then, let's just…do that then."

Suddenly, a smirk spread across Sherlock's face. His hands searched underneath the sheets and John gasped appropriately.

"Oh look, it's happening again…" he said innocently, contrasting his devilish expression.

"I can see that" John said rolling on top of Sherlock and sitting upright in a straddle position. "well I'll have to go along with it then…"

En El Paraíso

Get the picture?

It was the little things Sherlock loved. He'd never been a 'big picture' kind of guy. Of course he could appreciate it, but he preferred the minor details that went into it.

For example; John wearing his dressing gown. Usually it was post sex, when the light was slowly sliding in between the curtains and John was waking up for his morning cup of tea. Clumsily he'd scramble at the floor for a garment to put on, only to find Sherlock's silky blue dressing gown.

Still with eyes half closed, he'd pull it on and groggily make his tea.

Upon his return, Sherlock would sit up, rubbing his eyes as the rays of sun hit them. He'd drink in the sleeves that were far too long and the hem that was only a couple of inches from his ankle; instead of half way up his calf. His beanpole structure made it adorably difficult for John to borrow any of his clothes.

"Come here my little hobbit" he'd beckon with affectionate teasing. Often John would retort that he wished he'd never watched that film with him, but he'd always climb back into bed with him; setting his beloved tea on the side table - dressing gown flourishing as he went.

He pressed into to Sherlock like a cat. One arm and leg was thrown across him lazily and the dressing gown covered them both.

There they lay - two minor details in an elaborate big picture, but there was at least one person who appreciated that moments like these.

Eternamente

"I am deeply vulnerable," said Sherlock, emotionally. "In my emotions."

"Yes," said John breathlessly. "Please tell me about your emotions."

"Well," said Sherlock, tremblingly. "I have them."

"Oh, yes," said John, masturbatingly.

"Sometimes," continued Sherlock, "I am very sad. Which makes my feelings more sad."

"Oh god, yes," said John. "Keep going, I'm almost there!"

"And sometimes," said Sherlock, laying a hand on John's shoulder, "Sometimes I wonder if the Air Force strategic planning committee was wrong to ditch the proposed 6 Phoenix missile layout on the F-14 Tomcat-despite its obvious drawbacks, that level of firepower is unmatchable!"

John came.

En Su Reino

Seeing Sherlock again after believing him dead was overwhelming. John was … well it wasn't just one emotion he felt. There was a whole range of them, including anger.

"You bastard," he nearly shouts. "Letting me believe that you jumped off that building! I nearly died of a heart attack watching you jump, you should have been dead, god knows how you survived, although I'm sure you've got some brilliant explanation. STOP. I don't even want to hear it right now, I'm too furious. I could kiss you myself. KILL. Kill you. I could kill you, I should kill you, I can't even speak properly, God what's wrong with me, shut up John. So, where've you been, anyway? Having a holiday? A nice lark? Didn't send any postcards I noticed? Hmm? …"

Sherlock is looking at John in a way he never has before. Because John is of ordinary intellect he has never been able to surprise Sherlock. But he has now. Sherlock is looking at john and he's not just surprised, he's impressed.

"Freudian slip?"

John thinks, fuck it, he's alive, ALIVE!

"You can have one if you want, I …" he trails off, coughs, not knowing where to go from there. Sherlock will either kiss him or he won't and trying to make a joke of it now would be not only futile but cowardly, and John has never been a coward.

He has time to flick his tongue nervously across his lips before Sherlock's eyes narrow and he lifts John's chin with one long finger. John watches Sherlock's eyes moving rapidly, making a series of lightning observations of the telltale signs that must be written all over John's face.

In the end they move towards each other simultaneously. Sherlock has to bend his head and a curl of hair drops across his forehead. John has reached up to guide Sherlock's head down, cupping his jaw.

Sherlock is assaulted by a dazzling blend of contrasts: firm/soft, warm/cool, moist/dry. But there's something else, a taste, as John takes control and presses his tongue past Sherlock's lips. Control. John is taking control because this is a sphere in which he can not just match but outstrip Sherlock. The relief is overwhelming as he opens up to John and responds to the subtle move to align their bodies. For once, he can trust someone else to know and do the right thing. Sherlock relaxes and lets his hands explore new territory, confirming the geometry of John's body that he had previously mapped only with his eyes.

John pulls back thirty seconds later to ask without embarassment, "Molly got a bed around here?"

Sherlock laughs and indicates the spare room he has occupied in recent times. He stops next to the bed and waits for John to come and undress him.


End file.
